09 November 2017

My advice to you:
Be an angry woman,
not a stern still-life
but a jaw-clencher,
a mom voice,
a "get back here,"
a "put
that
down."
Don't apologize.
Yes, write letters,
but also make calls.
Spell things out.
Be the type
to drink an old-fashioned,
for you are muddled sugars
with bitters
and damn,
are you tired
with so much left to say,
so much left.

06 November 2017

no place is safe
not a church
not a temple
not a movie theater
not a school
where you work
where you relax
no place is safe
from angry men
from "men with purpose"
from eggshell egos
no place is safe
each place has potential
for danger, for peace
for welcoming the fragile,
for punishing them
no place is safe
from us

05 October 2017

I love it when
my war criminal holds me
after my disasters.
He shushes me and forces
my head to his heart.
He uses Dollar Tree paper towels
to mop-up my sadness.
He uses compliments
instead of money
to mend me.
I am still incomplete.
The pills don't fill
all of the holes in me,
and the tampons
only stop
some of the bleeding.
But it will be OK,
he says to my graying face,
a cloud in a dark and angry sky.
He ignores the clouds
around me
to look into my eyes.
"I will continue to say
I will defend you," he says.
"I will continue to say it."

06 September 2017

I was taught from a young age to be hypercritical of my body, especially my legs. I was always ashamed of the largeness of my features. I was jealous of people who had nice legs, because I did not like mine. Despite the daily hard work they performed, they were not aesthetic. I never showed them off. Spider veins crept up on them when I was a teen. Cellulite followed. I've realized, now that I'm in my thirties, that they are pretty in their own way, and they belong to me. They are big and they are mine. They carry me. They are strong, and I am strong.

14 August 2017

violence begets violence,
they said,
and the others saw
the invitation
and took
their backyard torches
and arrived
like a wave of fire
over the town.
this is for you,
the others said,
and blood
stained their mouths
as they chanted
blood and soil
blood and soil
and mashed
their cold bodies against
time and history,
shoved their lives through
blockades of clergy,
of punks,
of comrades,
waves of fire.
violence begets violence,
they said,
as the warm glow,
crackling and humming,
grew louder

19 June 2017

Dear readers,
Thank you for reliably visiting my blog over the years. Your readership means a lot to me. As some of you may know, my health hasn't been the greatest, and as a result, I am asking for your help. I am having trouble paying for my medicine and accumulating medical bills, so my sister and I have made a crowdfunding site to try to help. Please consider donating and/or sharing the link: https://www.youcaring.com/shannonmckeehen-854019.
Thank you so much for sticking around!
Warmly,
Shannon

12 June 2017

These small colors
wrapped in fur,
genetics along a string--
these are the surprises,
each a magic trick.
These events happen
outside the frame
while we are holding hands
or wringing hands
or catching hands.
These events happen,
and it doesn't matter if
they are accidental or on purpose.
We hope the light is cared for.
We hope that someone out there
will nurture each little thing,
but we don't actually know if that happens.
Hope and reality are different people,
not even siblings or cousins,
kissing or otherwise.
We want it to be good enough,
despite fragility,
because the colors are everlasting.
They are the truth.
Little reds and purples,
little blues and greens,
bundled together in hair and promise,
bundled together
in soft curls and violent starts.
When we are at our best,
we are really something.
When we are at our worst,
we have a lot to answer for.
Can we make a reality
that we can live with
and not just die for?
Let's just say
I hope so.

22 March 2017

I just wanted the option,
even if I didn't choose it.
I just wanted
to have all of the cards,
even the ones with
the bent corners.
When you get to be thirty,
she said,
you start running
out of options.
Your body grows spiders
instead of babies.
And lo, my womb
is full of tiny creatures
not human, pulsing and ticking,
giving me nothing,
letting me down.
The body is a temple,
she said,
so treat it with respect.
But there is no respect here.
It is does not reciprocate,
regardless of McDonald's meals
or hummus sandwiches.
It lets me down.
It is full of fire,
wicking up the webs left
by tiny creatures, clinging
to the walls of all
I will ever have.

21 March 2017

12 February 2017

Dry lipstick
fills small cracks
with confidence,
otherwise
I am a fuckup
in a dark room,
eyes fixed on a mirror
and I swear I am pixels.
I swear I am an image.
I touch my lip
and red pours out,
fills a glass.
I am thirsty, so I drink.
I drink to be real.
Please, hold my glass,
hold me, hold me.

30 January 2017

In this age of second helpings
and second comings, I scour
the edges of a simple map
while you grunt disapproval.
I thought I had it in me,
but instead, I help you
straighten your tie
to reality. I know the map better
than you do, but my legs are numb
and my brain is aflame,
so I don't know what to do.
Your lips flap, your mouth
laps up your coffee,
leaving small crumbs to float.
You are as careless as you are proud.
I stare at one of the crumbs,
a little brown thing lost at sea, disposable like my loved ones.
I don't know
what you mean or what you want,
but go fuck off anyway.

03 January 2017

If only the tooth fairy
still visited, I would
take pliers to my own mouth.

There is no salve
at the dollar store,
and there are no pills
at my mother's house,
and yet I still snoop
through drawers,
examine dirty shelves,
pretend to tie shoes
that are already
perfectly tight,
pretend
to be strong
when the same
questions sting.

About the Blogger

Shannon Ranee McKeehen, author of Barbra in Shadow and These Cells Are Passages, is a writer and teacher who received her MFA in English and Creative Writing from Mills College. She is currently at Kent State University, where she is pursuing a PhD in the English: Literacy, Rhetoric, and Social Practice (LRSP) program.